Mastermind
by fengirl88
Summary: John wants to watch Mastermind.  Sherlock wants to have sex.  Who says a quiet night in has to be boring?  Rated M for sexual content.  Fluffy pwp; domestic affairs in 221b Baker Street.


Title: Mastermind

Author: fengirl88

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Wordcount: 1350

Rating: M

Warnings: Sexual content, pwp.

Disclaimer: These characters are still not mine. No matter how hard I stare at them. Nor is the BBC's quiz programme Mastermind, or anything associated with it. And nor, sadly, is that great radio show Round The Horne, which makes a brief appearance here.

Summary: Home life at 221b Baker Street: "a cracked kind of domesticity". Fluffy pwp.

A/N: This fic seems to have been prompted by a comment kalypso_v made about Sherlock's failed deduction in chapter 5 of Consequences; it also bears the traces of an exchange with blooms84 about laundry arrangements at 221b. My thanks to them both.

**Mastermind**

**1.**

"I miss Magnus Magnusson," John says. "There was something about the way he used to say _I've started so I'll finish..."_

Sherlock laughs and moves in closer.

"Oi," John says, "I'm trying to watch this, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," Sherlock says, nuzzling John's neck.

"Can't _concentrate_ if you do that," John protests, feebly.

That _was_ rather Sherlock's idea. He brushes his fingers across the tell-tale lump in John's trousers, enjoying John's sharp intake of breath, and pulls at John's earlobe with his teeth. Pretty soon it gets hard to hear John Humphrys' questions or the contestants' answers. And – as Sherlock can tell from the pitch and volume of John's groans – his vision must be becoming blurred by now.

Another evening's viewing sabotaged. Sherlock smirks and unzips John's trousers, slides gracefully to the floor so he can suck John's cock. This is his favourite part of the day. Driving John slowly crazy with his lips and his hands and his tongue. Making John's last helpless attempts to retain his composure collapse into urgent desire. Hearing John's increasingly desperate moans and gasps and cries.

High-pitched beeping signals the end of another General Knowledge round. On the telly, John Humphrys is sayinghe's started so he'll finish (saying it less well than Magnus Magnusson, _obviously_) and on the sofa, John Watson is making a similar announcement, though differently phrased. Mainly variations on _oh god Sherlock please yes that oh god please I can't sweet Jesus I'm going to – __**ahh!**_

Sherlock manages not to laugh, which is just as well because laughing and swallowing at the same time would probably be a bad idea.

"_You_," John says, when he recovers the power of speech.

Sherlock wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and beams. _Entirely _happy with himself at this moment.

Who says a quiet night in has to be boring?

**2.**

"I don't know why we have to do this _now_," Sherlock complains.

"Yes, you do," John says, with that note in his voice Sherlock can never resist. The one that says _You are talking bullshit again and I love you_.

"_Boring_," Sherlock mutters.

"I could make it _less_ boring for you," John says, jabbing him in the ribs.

Sherlock dodges away, giggling.

"Are you going to behave yourself or do I have to make you?" John asks. It's not even a threat. He just sounds – interested. _Oh god._

There must _be_ a limit to the number of ways John Watson can be irresistible. Sherlock just hasn't found it yet.

They're out shopping for a new washing machine, because the old one – which wasn't actually _very _old – didn't survive Sherlock's latest experiment. Mrs Hudson had been ... seriously displeased. _There were a few discouraging words heard __**that**__ day_, Sherlock thinks, recalling some old radio comedy show on BBC7.

Looking at washing machines on a Saturday morning would never be _very _interesting. But when you've been aching to be in bed with John Watson for the last twenty-three minutes it becomes a peculiar form of torture. There's so much to think about, apparently: wash temperatures, spin speeds, energy efficiency, _measurements_.

Sherlock groans.

"Shush," John says, and goes back to talking to the sales assistant.

"You should go on Mastermind," Sherlock says bitterly. "Name: John Watson. Occupation: doctor and part-time assistant detective. Specialist subject: Everything you never needed to know about washing machines. _Ow. _That_ hurt."_

"The more you interrupt, the longer this is going to take," John says calmly, removing his hand from Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock gives a disappointed wriggle.

John looks at him briefly and grins. If ever an expression said _Serves you right,_ it's the one John's wearing now.

He's _enjoying_ this, the bastard. Drawing it out, asking more and more questions. Not even getting _answers_ to half of them. The assistant wouldn't score very high on washing machines as a specialist subject. Have to make it up in the General Knowledge round, Sherlock thinks morosely.

_At last_ John decides on a machine, and Sherlock says desperately yes, yes, it's absolutely _fine_, no there really _isn't _another one that he thinks would be better, and oh god do they have to have the conversation about delivery arrangements _now_?

Yes they do. Because John is inexorable. And he's having too much fun watching Sherlock go to pieces this morning to be ready to stop. That much is clear.

"John," Sherlock says, low and desperate, his mouth against John's ear. "Home. Please. Bed. _Now_. Please."

"Nearly there," John says cheerfully.

Sherlock glares. He _is_, too. Much too nearly there.

John _winks _at him. Bastard.

**3.**

They just about make it into the hall of 221b and shut the door behind them.

"_Sherlock!"_ John yelps. "Not here, for god's sake, at least wait until we -"

"_Can't_," Sherlock groans, pressing hard against him. "You – I – oh _god_." Too late.

Didn't even get his trousers unzipped. Bloody hell.

John's _laughing _at him, the sod.

Sherlock leans against him, knees giving way, head spinning. He feels sticky and uncomfortable and distinctly aggrieved.

Even sucking John off on the stairs, which he does despite John's wild protests and flailing attempts to push him away, doesn't restore his equilibrium.

"Are you secretly in league with my chiropractor?" John groans, rubbing his back and wincing as they finally make it upstairs to the flat.

"_Your fault_," Sherlock insists sulkily. "We could have done it in _bed_ if you hadn't taken so long asking stupid questions about bloody _washing machines_."

John makes tea and they collapse on the sofa for a bit. Sherlock still misses smoking, but a postcoital cup of tea is always nice. He likes the way John makes tea.

He likes the way John does almost everything, actually. That's the trouble.

John starts giggling for no apparent reason.

"_What?" _Sherlock says. Despite the tea, he's still feeling hard done by about earlier.

"Fifty-seven minutes," says John, still giggling.

"Fifty-seven – you _bastard!" _Sherlock says. "You did it on _purpose."_

"Well, you always _might _have held out longer," John says. "But that _is_ your record so far."

"I don't know why you think it's _funny," _Sherlock grumbles. "Now my clothes are all messed up."

"Just as well we've got a new washing machine coming then," John says, going off into fresh paroxysms.

He really is incredibly annoying sometimes.

"I think I _might_ go on Mastermind, at that," John says meditatively. "I'm getting quite good on my specialist subject."

"Which is?" says Sherlock, though he feels he probably knows the answer already.

"The Sex Life of Sherlock Holmes," John says, grinning. "Don't know who's going to set the questions, though."

"Oh, you think you know it all, do you?" Sherlock says, witheringly.

"No, of course not," John says. "But as I understand it, half the fun of preparing for Mastermind is spending lots of time _boning up on_ your specialist subject."

Sherlock groans. Seems John's been reading that American gay porn again.

"Hope your General Knowledge is better than your jokes," Sherlock says crushingly.

John's not crushed at all. "Well, it's certainly better than _yours. Solar system_ -"

"Will you _ever_ stop going _on_ about that?" Sherlock huffs.

"Probably not," says John. He's got that look again, as if he's plotting something new. Glances at his watch.

"I think we should go to bed," he says.

Sherlock's cock twitches hopefully.

"I'm not _quite_ sure what your record is for recovering between bouts," John says, "and if a question comes up about your refractory period I wouldn't want to _blow_ it."

His jokes really _are_ impossibly awful. Doesn't stop him giggling at them though.

Sherlock wonders if you can actually die of loving someone this much.

"OK, Mastermind," he says happily. "Bed it is."


End file.
